


love, my anchor

by writevale



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Specific spoilers for MAG 132 - 134, The Buried - Freeform, Thinking about Martin and those tapes, s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writevale/pseuds/writevale
Summary: Martin doesn't really know what he's doing, piling these tapes onto the coffin, but he knows it feels right.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 6
Kudos: 101





	love, my anchor

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by this wonderful [animation](https://syrren.tumblr.com/post/614038304944521216/thinking-about-how-martin-piled-tape-recorders) by syrren (the little kiss at the end made my knees weak) so, of course, I took something sweet and made it hurt like S4 did!
> 
> hope you enjoy!

Martin chews on his bottom lip, staring at the half-written email on his screen without seeing the words. He can't - he can't _believe_ -

But then, he absolutely can believe that Jonathan Sims, The Archivist, would walk straight into The Buried to try rescue someone who, at Martin's best recollection, wasn't even his _friend_. This was the kind of shit that Martin was protecting himself from in his new role as Peter's assistant. If he was going to lose Jon again, he wasn't going to play any part in it. And he wasn't going to feel it when it inevitably happened.

The words on his screen blur when he tries to read them. The tears in his eyes threaten to spill over and he tugs off his glasses in a sharp movement, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as if he can push them away before they fall. Peter had assured him that this would get easier and, honestly, he cried nowhere near as much as he had when he first took the role. This excess of emotion must just be reserved for the complete _reckless stupidity_ of the Archivist. A dark, bitter part of Martin suspects that fulfilling his job role would be much easier if Jon just didn't come back. He and Basira could form a lonely little club and never ever talk about what it's like to lose someone like that.

He squashes that voice in his head with a sniff. It still hurts, thinking about Jon. It's like a knife that comes out of nowhere in the fog, somehow still slipping between his ribs no matter how hard he tries to conceal his weak spots.

He blinks and the sans-serif blandness of his email comes back into focus. He scans the sparse expanse of his desk. His computer sits in the middle, a pile of papers either side. His mouse and keyboard. A stapler. A mug. The spot he always leaves empty should a tape recorder materialise.

_The tapes_.

The thought is accompanied by a mental click, as though the record button has been pressed down on several of them all at once. He could.

Martin feels himself stand more than he consciously plans and executes the movement. The door to his office makes no sound as it closes behind him and his feet do not thud on the stairs the way they used to. He feels suspended, hovering towards Jon's office and that dreadful coffin, as though lifted by invisible hands. It feels _right_ , though. It feels like the first good idea he's had in months.

The rush of static as he enters Jon's office almost untethers him. The coffin sits in the middle of the room, Jon's desk pushed back against the wall. Martin hasn't been in here in so long. He wants to sit in Jon's chair, to run his fingers along the seams of the jacket hung from the hook on the wall. To smell him. He inhales deeply but the office has been sunk under the stench of dirt, choking and oppressive. The static in Martin's ears rises as he steps forwards. He grits his teeth.

'No.' He snarls. Suddenly, he can feel the tips of his fingers again. Can imagine the feeling of soil beneath his nails. A part of him longs for the tide of the Lonely to wash him clean. 'I'm not for you.' Most of him wants something else. 'And neither is he.' His voice is loud in his ears. He knows with a gut-deep certainty that he's not going to be disturbed here.

Jon has left tapes everywhere. Martin grabs handfuls and handfuls of them from open boxes littering the office, from the shelves, from the drawers of Jon's desk. He doesn't stop to read the labels, but as he touches the tapes he gets a vague inkling of their contents. A twist in his gut tells him that this stack once had his poetry murmured into the ferric oxide coating of each tape and a foreign, giddy feeling bubbles up in his chest when he thinks about how thoroughly _pissed off_ Jon is going to be when he has to reorganise all of this.

He might be crying. He might step back to admire his handiwork with shaking hands like his muscles have been moving of their own accord and he's only just regained conscious control. It still feels right though, the stacks of tapes on the coffin. It feels like they might be strong enough to call out to ~~his~~ The Archivist and pull him home.

A single tape slips off the smooth surface of the coffin and clatters on the floor. Martin bends to pick it up, movements slow and uncertain now that he's lost the frantic energy that carried him here. The plastic rectangle feels cold in his hands and he thinks it must be blank as there’s no accompanying shiver down his spine. He drops to his knees, keeping a careful distance between himself and the coffin, and turns the tape over and over in his hands. He sniffs and clears his throat. It seems apt, really, to put a blank tape on the coffin. Like dangling a carrot. _Come on, Jon, if you get out of there you can record a little statement on this_.

_Come on, Jon._

Martin knows how tape recorders work, but he brings the tape up to his lips and whispers an instruction into its glossy surface. For the first time in months he has enough heat in his body for a dusky pink to settle across his cheeks as he presses a kiss into the label and drops it neatly on top of the pile. He dares to hope it'll make a difference. And dares to hope it won't ruin his work with Peter if it does.

He hears the first patter of rain as his hand touches the office door. He leaves the warbling coffin - and Jon - behind.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
